Tell me the truth about love
by martinhiddlespig
Summary: One shots, based on W H Auden's poem, Tell me the truth about love. Mild Johnlock, some bad language. Some young!sherlock and young!john. Part 1 out of 7.
1. The poem

**Tell me the truth about love**

_Some say that love's a little boy,_

_And some say it's a bird,_

_Some say it makes the world go round, _

_And some say that's absurd,_

_And when I asked the man next door, _

_Who looked as if he knew, _

_His wife got very cross indeed, _

_And said it wouldn't do._

_Does it look like a pair of pyjamas, _

_Or the ham in a temperance hotel?_

_Does its odour remind one of llamas, _

_Or has it a comforting smell?_

_Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is, _

_Or soft as eiderdown fluff?_

_Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges? _

_O tell me the truth about love. _

_Our history books refer to it_

_In cryptic little notes, _

_It's quite a common topic on _

_the Transatlantic boats;_

_I've found the subject mentioned in _

_Accounts of suicides, _

_And even scribbled on_

_The backs of rail way guides_

_Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian, _

_Or boom like a military band?_

_Could one give a first-rate imitation_

_On a saw or a Steinway grand?_

_Is it's singing at parties a riot?_

_Does it only like classical stuff?_

_Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?_

_O tell me the truth about love. _

_I looked inside the summer-house, _

_It wasn't ever there,_

_I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,_

_And Brighton's bracing air, _

_I don't know what the blackbird sang, _

_Or what the tulip said;_

_But it wasn't in the chicken run, _

_Or underneath the bed. _

_Can it pull extraordinary faces?_

_Is it usually sick on a swing?_

_Does it spend all its time at the races, _

_Or fiddling with pieces of string?_

_Has it views of its own about money?_

_Does it think Patriotism is enough?_

_Are its stories vulgar but funny? _

_O tell me the truth about love. _

_When it comes, will it come without warning, _

_Just as I'm picking my nose?_

_Will it knock on the door one morning, _

_Or tread on the bus on my toes?_

_Will it come like a change in the weather?_

_Will its greeting be courteous or rough?_

_Will it alter my life altogether? _

_O tell me the truth about love. _


	2. Chapter 1

**_Some say that love's a little boy,_**

When Sherlock was little he had two favourite toys.

One was a tiny tin soldier because he'd got to paint the costume on himself, and of course, therefore, it had been free of those annoying little inaccuracies of the mass produced ones. It was also small enough to hold in his delicate hands, and as he was to later discover, that solider wouldn't be the last he'd ever share his adventures with.

The other was a doctor's kit, which he'd stolen from Mycroft. He liked all of the interesting plastic things inside it, especially the syringe; it wasn't long before he'd faked a chest complaint so he could steal a real stethoscope.

**_And some say it's a bird,_**

"Mummy! Mummy! Why can't that birdie fly? Mummy! Mummy, I think it's broken!"

Two year old John Watson knew he had to help that little birdie, so he tried to run towards it. The little brown bird looked at the toddler, and saw only good intentions. Cocking its head to the side, the bird pleaded with its eyes. Unfortunately, John had forgotten about the baby reigns, and got pulled backwards and tripped, falling face down in a puddle.

As John wailed noisily, the little bird hopped away.

**_Some say it makes the world go round, _**

**_And some say that's absurd,_**

They'd had too many bottles of cheap wine, and sharing a bottle of tequila (only used for experiments) had not been a good idea.

"But, but, Sherlock! Love makes the world go round!"

A drunk Lestrade usually clamoured about his "bloody-psycho-bitch" wife, but John had to admit that tonight was turning out to be a good one.

"No. It's a myth, p-p-perpetrated by lonely housewives so they can p-pretend better. Look at you, your marriage isn't exactly happy, is it?"

Sherlock's lisp was only ever present after a lot of alcohol or for a while after his post-case 23 hour sleep. John thought, privately, that it was adorable, and there weren't many things Doctor John Watson would say that about.

Trying to hide his giggles, John watched Detective Inspector Lestrade try to leave in a rage, before he hurled himself down the stairs, falling into a heap, where he fell asleep.

"You know, Sherlock, he is right," John said, trying to make his way from the chair to the sofa where Sherlock was sprawled. John tripped on the edge of the rug and using Sherlock's thigh to steady himself; they found each other's eyes through the haze of alcohol and late nights.

"And I reckon I can make your world go round..." said John, his deep, throaty breaths tickling Sherlock's neck. Reason had left Sherlock's usually astute brain so as Sherlock's lips met John's, any thought of decency was abandoned.

**_And when I asked the man next door, _**

**_Who looked as if he knew, _**

**_His wife got very cross indeed, _**

**_And said it wouldn't do._**

It took six months before they realised that you pick your battles, despite how many times Mrs Hudson told them.

And that arguing with Sherlock was impossible. And that when it came to people, John was always right.


	3. Chapter 2

_Does it look like a pair of pyjamas, _

_Or the ham in a temperance hotel?_

_Does its odour remind one of llamas, _

_Or has it a comforting smell?_

"Four weeks, Sherlock. You can't survive four bloody weeks?!" John slammed the door and stomped down the stairs and found himself breathing in cold London air.

_Damn him_, he thought.

John walked aimlessly, knowing full well he'd end up in Regents Park with a totally crap cup of coffee, sighing about With-out-a-case-Sherlock.

_Why delay the inevitable? _

Ten minutes later he found himself asking for a cappuccino and looking for a bench to sit on.

The first two weeks had been bearable: only small experiments, the fridge remained body part free and the microwave stayed, miraculously, clean.

This week though, had to be the worst ever. The kitchen looked like it had been bombed, the new air freshener of rotting fingers really wasn't working. And John still hadn't found out why the sofa had to be turned upside down at all times, no exceptions.

_Bloody Sherlock._

_Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is, _

_Or soft as eiderdown fluff?_

_Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges? _

_O tell me the truth about love. _

"Right. Okay. You're unattached like me."

No. I, John Waston, will not look at Sherlock. No. I will not let my eyes wander over his smooth pale skin. No. I will not let myself imagine what it would be like to run my fingers through his hair. I will not let myself wonder if his hair is fluffy and tickly or soft and strong like silk. I will not dream of those perfect lips, or remarkable cheekbones. I refuse to stare at the striking features of this man, especially the way they're illuminated by the soft candle light.

No. Do not look at Sherlock.

Look out the window – out of the bloody windo-

My eyes find his anyway.

Shit.


End file.
